


Loss, Fear, and Love

by liamthebastard



Series: let's write Sherlock [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John Watson's Blog, M/M, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Pre and Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liamthebastard/pseuds/liamthebastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was not a fake, nor was he a machine. He lost, feared and loved more deeply than anyone I’ve ever known. But you won’t believe me, because you believe <em>Richard Brook</em> instead. I can’t make you believe, but I can tell you how I know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loss, Fear, and Love

_From the Blog of Dr. John H. Watson_

 

Sherlock Holmes was not a fake, nor was he a machine. He lost, feared and loved more deeply than anyone I’ve ever known. But you won’t believe me, because you believe _Richard Brook_ instead. I can’t make you believe, but I can tell you how I know. 

 

I’d only been living with Sherlock for maybe six months when his brother called. I’ve no affection for Mycroft; he is hardly the ideal family. But this time, instead of ignoring the call or hanging up on him as Sherlock usually did, he listened attentively and only said that he’d “be there immediately”. I assumed it was a case, perhaps something above a seven that would get Sherlock out of the spectacularly terrible mood he’d been in the past week and a half, so I had pulled on my jacket and slipped into my shoes before I realized Sherlock wasn’t moving. 

“Sherlock, we’ve got to go,” I said, but he just sat on the sofa, looking stunned. His hands were limp in his lap and he stared blankly ahead as if his mind couldn’t process what was going on. I reached out, shook his shoulder a bit. I’d hoped it would snap him out of it, but instead he just moved around limply, like a ragdoll. “Sherlock, case? Let’s go,” I repeated, a bit louder. Sherlock only shook his head.

“Not a case,” he droned. I’d never heard his voice like that; hollow and monotone like all the life had been drained from him. He never sounded like that. His voice would become sharp, or cajoling, or soft, or furious, but it never was devoid of all inflection.

“Well then what is it? Whatever it is, you said you’d be right there, so we should go,” I said, trying to usher him up off the couch. He only slumped back, completely collapsed against the back of it, as if he was drained from all his strength. 

“Mummy. She-” He stopped. Just gave up, midsentence. Not to announce something new, or to speed off after a thought. Not even to dive into his mind palace. He stalled out, as if he’d run out of petrol. I had a sense of where this was going. I sat next to him on the sofa, gave him some space while I shrugged my jacket off and slid my shoes under the edge of the sofa. 

“What happened?” I asked, adopting the sympathetic voice I used for frightened children in the clinic. Sherlock took a shuddering breath, and I abruptly remembered how human he was, how very fragile his existence was, just like everyone else’s. 

“She’s dead.” Not gone. Not passed on. Not in a better place. Say what you will about Sherlock Holmes, but he did not sugar coat. He said what needed saying, no matter how hard it was for him to say, or for anyone else to hear it.

I nodded sympathetically, but I didn’t say anything, knowing he would reject any and all forms of comfort. Instead, I stepped to the kitchen and put the kettle on. If I were going to get anything out of Sherlock that evening, it would require us both to be very relaxed. 

Four cups of tea later, I’d learned that Mummy Holmes had been at least as brilliant as her sons, and while she was beautiful, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft deeply resembled her. She’d had a lab, and a library, and would alternate where she worked according to time of day. In the mornings, when Mycroft was most likely to want her, she would be in the library. But in the evenings, when Sherlock couldn’t sleep, she would be in the lab, mixing chemicals and planning experiments. It was at her side that Sherlock learned to love the unpredictability of a real-life experiment. 

“’Question everything’, that was the only advice she’d ever give me. She let me figure the rest out for myself,” Sherlock mentioned, before he went silent for a while. In the gaps, I told him stories about my childhood, so he wouldn’t feel alone in his vulnerability. I told him about my mother, the woman who worked too hard for a husband who appreciated too little, about my sister, the girl who fought who she was so hard she eventually lost it, and even about the puppy I’d owned as a little boy that had run away to live on a farm, leaving me bereft. By the time both of us had told our stories, Sherlock was ready. He stood of his own volition and threw on his coat, tying his scarf neatly around his neck. I was still scrabbling to pull on my shoes and jacket when he turned around, eyes childlike.

“It’s time to go, John.”

 

Presumably, if you’re still reading my blog this long after the fact, you know all about Moriarty and the pool, so I won’t bore you with the details of how a timely phone call saved our lives. What I never mentioned was how, in the nights after those events, Sherlock became plagued by nightmares. More nights than not, he would crash into my room, hair wild and eyes frightened until he saw I was alright. Then he would vanish back downstairs, and refuse to go back to sleep for the night, usually screeching on his violin ‘til dawn. The first time it happened, I was so startled I immediately reached for a weapon, but soon recognized the shadow as Sherlock and relaxed. I reached over and flipped on the bedside lamp, casting the whole room into a warm glow.

Sherlock sighed in relief. “You’re all right?” he asked, as if he was confirming that my sleeping soundly until my flatmate barged in was completely usual. Which, oddly enough, it was.

“Yeah. Did something come up?” I asked, rubbing sleep from my eyes and mentally getting ready for a case. I had hoped for a day or two off after nearly getting killed, but Sherlock was Sherlock, manic and obsessive as always, and I was ready to follow him. He only shook his head. I took in his curls, in complete disarray, his pajamas, sleep-creased for once, and the half-light of fear in his eyes, and realized why he was standing there. I got out of bed, stood up with my arms loose to show I was okay. 

He nodded briskly and left, the door standing wide open behind him as he did. A few minutes later, I heard his violin screech to life. I didn’t sleep again that night.

After a month of dealing with his awful brand of Beethoven at two a.m., I took to staying up with him. My own nightmares had kept me up often enough that I knew how difficult it was dealing with the aftermath of them alone. Once he realized he had an audience, his playing improved infinitely. Suddenly it was easy to see him performing on a stage before thousands, and I wondered, not for the first time, why he chose such an unusual job, one that caused him such obvious terror.

One particular night, a few months after the first nightmare incident, Sherlock checked in on me, as was now usual, at about three a.m. Once he was certain I was still and not wrapped in Semtex, we trekked downstairs together, where I put on the kettle and Sherlock picked up his instrument. But this time, instead of playing the violin, he stared out the window, picking aimlessly at the strings.

I poured us both tea, added milk to mine and sugar to Sherlock’s before joining him in the living room. Now he was seated on the sofa, his violin and bow left by the window as he sat and stared at the wall, lost in thought. 

“Something changed?” I asked, startling him from his stupor. “In the dreams, I meant.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, seeming perplexed. He didn’t elaborate just yet, but instead of pestering him I sipped at my tea, making sure his cup was directly in his line of vision so he was aware of its existence. He lifted the cup and drank from it absently, running his finger over the handle. I watched him fiddle patiently, knowing soon enough he’d speak. “This dream was different.”

“What was so different about this one?” I wondered, glad he’d broken the silence.

He turned to face me head on, tea in hand. “This time, Moriarty wasn’t you.”

 

This is the portion of my writing I am most afraid to publish. For it confirms, in part, what has been denied many times, both in public and private. 

I love Sherlock Holmes. In a ridiculous, completely irreversible way. He asked me once to keep my eyes on him, but there was never a time when I looked away. It wasn’t his face or his body, but his mind that ensnared me, and the tiny acts of humanity he exhibited to those lucky enough to be his friend. I have seen him grief stricken, terrified, and on one extremely horrible occasion, outsmarted. I have seen him doubt what his own senses were telling him, and I even managed to see him get something wrong. But I have never seen him give a damn what others thought. He was mad. He was cruel. He was often insufferable. And he was without a doubt the most brilliant, caring and remarkable man I have ever known. It was impossible to tell without spending time with him, but after living with him for two years, I feel confident in saying he was more human than any of us could ever be. He was my best friend. He saved my life more often than I saved his, and I owe everything I now am to him. If I could trade places with him, I would without a thought, because if not for him, I would be in his place.

Sherlock was not the gentlest of people. I can’t imagine anyone with a brain that quick could be. Yet, he never failed to take care that I was all right, that Mrs. Hudson was safe. That the people closest to him were happy and healthy. He never failed to hurt us, but usually it was when he thought we’d be better off in the long run.

When I had no one, he reached out and saw something in me that I’m still not certain exists. And when everyone else had abandoned him, instead of returning the favor, I jumped ship along with the rest of the rats. I failed him. I let him die alone, never knowing how much he meant to me, how much he had altered my life.

I have never regretted anything in my life so much as I regret that my last words to him were words denying his humanity, instead of explaining how I felt.

And I am convinced, that while he may not have reciprocated completely, he felt _some_ sort of affection towards me. And nothing, not his death, not my own, can stop that friendship.

He was nothing short of a hero, and no matter what he said, I will always believe in the man I knew. 

I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

 

 _New Comment_ : **Sherlock Holmes** : I’m sorry. I’ll be home soon. I love you. Obviously.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the writing prompt from writingprompts.tumblr.com, the one that says: "Remember that everyone you meet is afraid of something, loves something, and has lost something." -H. Jackson Brown Jr. It got me started and I couldn't stop. Unbeta'd, per usual. Loved this challenge.


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